


home

by nausicaa_of_phaeacia



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Framework, Season/Series 04, the Kitchen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-21 04:03:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10677288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nausicaa_of_phaeacia/pseuds/nausicaa_of_phaeacia
Summary: They always meet in the kitchen, at night.





	home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hamsterfactor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamsterfactor/gifts).



> For hamsterfactor's birthday! :) Thank you for everything, you are awesome. This fandom wouldn't be the same without you. ♥
> 
> Pretty much nothing happens in this fic, I guess.

It’s still ... Sometimes it still feels like someone could come up to her anytime and she should be checking their vibrations before talking to them, for they might be an LMD. Sometimes it still feels like she’s going to see a familiar face and find herself in a position where she needs to explain everything from square one, again. And sometimes she wakes up in the middle of the night – no, jolts awake – and for a few seconds, she isn’t able to tell which world it is, needs to feel the length of her hair to be sure.

This is one of those nights, and she ends up in the kitchen, like she does so often. They’ve had to move the base again, for obvious reasons, and while the place still feels unfamiliar and a little cold – like the apartments you visit when you’re looking to buy one, uninhabited –, Daisy has already made friends with the kitchen. It might be the clock Coulson’s managed to salvage. She only overheard part of the conversation, but it seems to allegedly be the one that had been hanging in the very first SSR file storage room (maybe it sounds minor, but it isn’t to Coulson, so Daisy was the first to advocate that it be transferred to the new base). She’s gotten used it, and to its loud ticking at 4 a.m. It makes her nights spent at the kitchen less lonely.

She’s brought a chair – well, two chairs, actually, and they’re both stolen. Technically. If she arranges them like this, they’re gonna look just like –  
“You look like you’ve been awake for a while.” Coulson’s voice sounds _warm_ , even a little excited to find her here. She smiles as she turns around to face him. He’s in his pajamas, hair ruffled, but he doesn’t look like he’s slept. Not much, anyway.  
She nods. “Can’t get used to this place. You?”  
Coulson shakes his head, then steps closer. “May I?”  
They both sit down at the small kitchen table. The kitchen at the last base was much larger, luxurious, even, including the furniture. This is smaller, but that’s not what’s unfamiliar about it. It just feels ... empty. Standard. Like a place you have to use and then leave.

“These look just like the chairs from the Playground,” he says, sounding pleased. She can’t help blushing, doesn’t answer.  
“Daisy?”  
“Yeah. They do. I mean –“  
He smiles. “They _are_ the chairs from the Playground, aren’t they?”  
“Yeah. I took them with me, hid them in the van. They felt ... a little bit like home, I guess.” She’s blushing, but is immensely relieved when she realizes the kitchen is dimly lit. He’s smiling at her anyway, like she just said something terribly endearing. (She doesn’t need any more light to see that.)

“So they’re the exact same chairs we sat on that night we made ravioli? When I became Director?”  
She grins. “Yeah. From the can.”  
“I loved that,” he says, and for a moment, Daisy isn’t sure what he means exactly.  
“Thanks,” he says.  
She thinks now he’s talking about the red folding chairs.

 

*****

On other nights, it’s really bad. Bad like she’s consciously having a nightmare without being able to wake up. It’s not always the same thing, but there’s a recurring element whenever that happens: Coulson, the _teacher_ Coulson, gets shot, and then _Agent_ Coulson gets shot, too, and it’s horrible because it’s in the Framework, and she doesn’t have her powers, and that’s it. 

She doesn’t even try to pretend the kitchen isn’t her go-to spot during those nights (or any sleepless night, really). At this hour, she rarely finds anyone there. She tiptoes down the hallway, like a thief, she thinks, and before she turns the corner, it actually feels like when she used to tiptoe to the bathroom at one of the foster homes for fear of getting caught awake. 

As she enters the room, a sudden noise startles her, and she instinctively tenses up, ready to fight.  
It’s Coulson, though. In pajamas. Huffing at the microwave.  
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” he says, as he turns around. “I almost dropped my mug.” It makes her chuckle, and it’s just such a relief, even though she technically _knew_ she wasn’t going to face a threat in the kitchen. Not here, not while this place is still so new and unfamiliar.

She carefully sits down on one of the red plastic chairs, like she isn’t sure she should be here, or like maybe the chair is going to feel cold, or maybe Coulson needs privacy. He’s smiling, though, as he sits down to face her, balancing the too-hot mug between his fingertips.  
“We’re not getting too much sleep, are we?,” and it might sound like he’s schooling her, but it sounds warm, it sounds like they’re some sort of partners-in-crime. She shakes her head, smiles back.  
He takes a noisy sip, very carefully, almost not touching the mug. It looks cute.

“Sorry,” he smiles. “Left it in the microwave for too long. Only the mug is hot, though,” he sighs. “You want some? Milk with honey.”  
She’s not sure what to say, doesn’t want to refuse. This is unexpected, even though it’s definitely not the first time Coulson’s shared his stuff with her. “Yeah. Thank you.”  
“Be careful. Don’t burn your lips.”  
Daisy makes the same sound he did, then gracefully wipes her lips against her palm. Milk. That’s another thing that always feels familiar. She doesn’t think she’s ever had milk (not a latte, that doesn’t count) in a place at which she didn’t spend the night.

“Thanks,” she says, and it doesn’t seem enough, but he probably knows what she means. He never needed many words from her. (He looks like he’d like to hear more words from her, right now, but that’s different.)  
“Anytime,” he says, and it’s a little weird because she hands him back the milk, and they’ve both drunk from it. Coulson’s lips are still on the mug, and so are hers. It’s an oddly comforting thought.

“Does the clock still have that button on the back?,” she asks. He looks up, almost smiles, but it looks like he’s sad, too.  
“Yeah, the button’s still on there. I’m not sure it can be used again, though. The clock took quite a hit when – you know.”  
She notices now that the glass on the clock’s face has recently been replaced. “Yeah. Sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” he says, and he sounds okay. He turns back to her. “It means something different now.” He stops, but she knows what he’s talking about. It’s not just a clock, not just a historical clock, it’s an object they spent time with. It still sounds the way it sounded when they shared tea in the Playgound’s kitchen, just like when he came to sit with her while she was hacking Miles out of his dubious contracts, like when she found him by the kitchen table with a bottle. And it sounds just the way it sounded the first time she returned to S.H.I.E.L.D., and the second time, when she was sitting on one of the chairs, alone, just listening to the silence that was still the same as it was before she’d ever left. 

“Daisy?”  
“Oh. Sorry. I’m okay.” She pulls her feet up. “Just thinking.”  
He doesn’t ask, and she loves him for it.  
Loves him.  
She gets wide-eyed for a second, and she can see it scares Coulson for a flashing moment. “I think I better go to bed,” she says, “I’m not making sense.”  
He smiles.  
“You don’t have to,” he replies, like it’s something he’d always be ready to tell her.  
She nods, gives him a warm smile, then gets up, almost turns around to leave.  
“Okay,” she says. It’s just one step, but it seems like a very long distance once she closes it. Her hand is almost touching his thigh as she leans in a little, kisses him on the lips. It’s very soft, almost like it’s not there, almost like he’s just imagining it.  
“Good-night, Phil,” she says, and his heart jumps because it’s been a while. He beams, even until after she’s left.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Hope you liked it! :)
> 
> I wrote a few fics about Daisy and Coulson accidentally meeting in the kitchen in the middle of the night, and I think that always involved red plastic chairs. For some reason, I think they'd probably change headquarters again, so I felt a little sad about those. This is what came of it, I guess :)


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